“So far, so good. Where was Roxy?”
“I searched through the building first. Big performance space in the middle. Tons of little rooms all around. It’s a little bewildering. But once I determined the place was empty, I started whispering Roxy’s name. I figured once she knew it was me, she’d appear.”
“And did she?”
“She was up in a storage attic. Had made a nest behind some boxes. Pretty smart. I could’ve walked around forever without seeing her. Especially in an attic. Once I explained we could help her . . . She trusts me, Flora.”
Sarah looked at the sleeping form on the couch. I got her real fear then. Not that the mystery shooter would magically appear at Sarah’s apartment gunning for Sarah, but that Sarah would fail to protect Roxy. Because we’d all failed once. That’s how we became victims. And trying to find the strength to believe we wouldn’t fail a second time was often the most difficult part of being a survivor.
“I’m assuming you paid attention exiting the theater?” I prodded gently.
“We went out the back. Roxy knew an exit that dumped us onto a rear alley. So anyone who might be watching the front . . .”
“Would never be able to spot you walking away down a separate street. Smart thinking.”
“I gave her my ball cap and jacket. Figured if someone was paying attention, they’d see one girl in my clothes walk in the front, would figure it was the same female exiting. The theater has a lot of costumes. I tucked my hair up, went with a man’s blazer, worked on my slouch.”
I nodded. Sarah was skinny. She could probably pass for a teenage boy. I noticed for the first time a small pile of discarded clothes next to the wall. Their hats and coats from earlier, shed the moment they walked in the door. Peeking out from the bottom of the pile was the red-and-black scarf Roxy had mentioned buying. I picked it up, then, after another moment’s consideration, stuffed it in my own bag. Sarah didn’t say anything.
“How did you get from there to here?” I asked.
“We walked to a corner coffee shop, where I called Uber. I didn’t notice anyone get into a vehicle as our car pulled away from the curb. And I kept an eye out. Whole trip. I never spotted anyone following us.”
“You have the driver deliver you straight here?”
“No. He dropped us at the public library. We walked the rest of the way here.”
I nodded, suitably impressed. “Well done. Sounds to me like you covered all the bases. There’s nothing to tie you to Roxy or Roxy to you. We haven’t even posted to the group since this whole thing started.”
Sarah nodded. We’d never explicitly talked about it, but had reached the mutual decision to go dark after seeing the Amber Alert first thing yesterday morning. Support groups were built on trust, and yet all of us did have trust issues. Besides, Sarah was the only member of our band of misfits who’d ever met Roxy. My reaching out to Sarah had been enough of a stretch. No need to involve the others.
“I should grab some food,” Sarah was saying now, more to herself than to me. “I don’t even have orange juice. And when Roxanna does wake up, she’s probably going to be hungry.”
“For anything but a protein bar,” I agreed. “Roxy’s going to sleep for a bit. Running to the corner mart and back will take you, what, twenty minutes? You should be fine.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’ll follow your lead. Walk the dogs to the public library, as their pictures were on the news yesterday, too. Grab an Uber there, and head back to Brighton to the school guidance counselor’s house. I have some more questions for her.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know yet. But Ms. Lobdell Cass knows all the players involved. And I still can’t help thinking there’s something she’s not saying. I just don’t know if it’s because she’s trying to help someone or because she’s frightened of someone.”
“Who would a school counselor be afraid of?”
“Please—an entire school of troubled teens? I would fear them all.”
I felt self-conscious the moment the Uber driver crossed the line into Brighton. Anxious and hypervigilant. Like a suspect returning to the scene of the crime. I wondered how Roxy and Lola had done it last year. Trying not to ruin their mom’s newfound happiness as she excitedly moved them into her boyfriend’s house, only a mile from a place they’d sworn never to think about, never to talk about, ever again.
Then having to show up to a new school where their former tormentors walked the halls.
Judging by what Roxy had said, they’d never spoken up. Never revealed the truth to their mom. Their silence was their way of protecting her. While she had started digging into the mess as a way of belatedly protecting them. Each of them trying to do what she thought was best. All of them failing in the end.
My mother and I weren’t so different. All these years later, there were still things we didn’t discuss. The four hundred and seventy-two days hadn’t just been my ordeal but hers as well.
One of the biggest lessons I’d had to learn after returning home was to let my mom hug me. To understand that even if it made me flinch, she needed the contact. After everything she’d been through, she needed to hold her little girl again.
I wondered if Lola or Roxy gave their mother that chance. Or if, after their year at Mother Del’s, they, too, had retreated inside a hardened shell.
I couldn’t blame my mother for my kidnapping. She could blame me for my stupidity, but I couldn’t blame her. For Roxy and Lola, that equation was much more complicated. And yet forgiveness was forgiveness. Where would any of us be without it?
I had the driver drop me off directly in front of Tricia Lobdell Cass’s place. By now, I’d been there so often, it was hardly a secret.
I handed over a generous tip for allowing the dogs, then exited onto the sidewalk, helping Blaze and Rosie out behind me. They sniffed the air, gave two faint tail wags. For blind dogs, they got a sense of location quick enough.
When I looked up, Tricia stood in the open door, already waiting for me. And I thought again that she looked nervous, held herself too tightly for someone whose involvement should be purely professional.
I took one last deep breath. Then the dogs and I got on with it.
? ? ?
TRICIA LED THE DOGS AND me through her first-floor apartment. There was a small kitchen in the back. She nudged two metal food bowls with her foot, and the dogs figured out the rest on their own. There was also a giant bowl of water.
“Any luck?” she asked.
She stood across from the kitchen table. A small, square barrier between her and me. I felt that prickle of hyperawareness again. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. The kitchen had a rear door leading to the outside. The glass pane at the top allowed light, but afforded only a small view of the yard.
I moved closer to the dogs, where I could keep my gaze on the back door to my right and the kitchen entrance to my left.
“I got shot at,” I said, glancing at the counselor to gauge her reaction. She had long dark hair. I wondered why I’d never considered that before.
She flinched. Genuine surprise? Or a spike of anxiety?
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Las Ni?as Diablas are fine, too. A little pissed. Not too cooperative with the police, mostly because I’m sure they plan on hunting down the gunwoman and extracting their own brand of retribution. Nervous?” I asked.
“What?”
“You seem nervous.”
“A family I know was murdered. One of my students is missing. This entire neighborhood suddenly seems to have turned into the Wild West. Of course I’m rattled.”
“You’re not rattled. You’re nervous.”
A flicker of movement to my right. A bird swooping by the window.
I placed both my hands on the wooden back of the closest kitchen chair. A chair can be a marvelous tool for offense and defense. Like a lion trainer facing down a roaring charge, or a brawler taking out an opponent in a bar.
“He threatened me,” she said suddenly.